


Tour Diaries

by there_must_be_a_lock



Series: The Rockstar AU [6]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), One Direction (Band), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Asexual Spencer Reid, Chaotic Bisexuals As Far As The Eye Can See, Coming Out, Crack Crossover, Everybody Is Drunk, Everybody Is Ridiculous, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, anyway here's wonderwall, coconut rum and other poor choices, irresponsible use of pink fluffy handcuffs, it's like a crack setup but also there are feels sprinkled in?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Scenes from the Ceiling Fires/Business As Usual world tour.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Harry Styles/Sam Winchester, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/Emily Prentiss
Series: The Rockstar AU [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852567
Comments: 13
Kudos: 18





	1. Cheers

**“** Okay, seriously though, my friend found all these pictures of them at Bonnaroo walking around with a girl with blue hair, right? So she did a side-by-side analysis and she _swears_ it’s Harry Styles in a wig. Like, honest to god.” 

“Who’s Harry Styles?” Spencer asks, putting his book down and rubbing his eyes as he comes out of his reading trance.

“Only the love of my life,” Penelope tells him. 

“Penelope,” Emily interrupts. “You are _not_ allowed to ask him if he’s really friends with Harry Styles.” 

Penelope deflates slightly. “But -”

JJ tells her, “You are _definitely_ not allowed to ask if you can have Harry Styles’s phone number.” 

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Apparently there’s a whole group of crazies who think he and Sam are actually dating. There are conspiracy theories and everything.” 

“Let’s just outlaw the subject of Harry Styles altogether,” JJ says hurriedly. “Okay?” 

“Oh my God, I wouldn’t _actually_ ask. Are you ready yet, Em?” 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Emily replies, glaring at her reflection. She’s been trying to even out her wings for like half an hour now. “I look like a raccoon.” 

“So… normal then?” Spencer asks, with his cheekiest smile. 

“Uh oh, we’ve got Sassy Spence tonight,” JJ says. She grabs Emily’s arm to tug her away from the mirror. “You’re gorgeous. Let’s go.” 

“Forward, march!” Penelope orders. “To Suite 202!” 

. . . 

“So then Sammy asks if she’s his daughter,” Dean finishes. 

Hotch and Spencer laugh; it makes Hotch look about ten years younger. 

“What did she say?” Spencer asks, tucking his hair behind his ears again. With his legs crossed in his ratty Chucks, he looks too young to be drinking. 

“Just said ‘I’m his wife,’ ice cold, and walked away.”

“You should’ve _seen_ the look on Sam’s face,” Cas adds. He settles down next to Dean, handing him a fresh drink and sitting close. For a moment Dean forgets that they’re _allowed_ to be close, that he’s not in public any more, and then he puts an arm around Cas, smiling to himself. 

“What about you?” Dean asks. 

“I haven’t gotten starstruck since Kurt Cobain,” Hotch answers. “But you should ask Spencer what happened when he met David Byrne.” 

“Spencer, what happened when you met David Byrne?” Cas asks with a smirk. 

“Well… you know how Freud talked about seeing the Acropolis for the first time? The feeling of derealization?” 

“No,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. “Should I?” 

“What you have to understand is that my mom was playing me the Talking Heads while I was in the womb,” Spencer continues earnestly. “Remain In Light, mostly, because it came out that year, but — anyway. Research shows —“

“David Byrne is his Acropolis,” Hotch translates. “He didn’t speak for almost two hours after they were introduced.” 

“And I get the feeling there aren’t many things that render him speechless,” Cas says dryly. 

. . .

“Hey there, hot stuff,” Penelope says, and she sits in the empty spot next to Derek on the couch. She almost kicks Spencer as she does so; he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, hunched over one of the acoustic guitars that everybody’s been passing around. 

“You know there’s another chair, right?” asks Sam, who’s sprawled out in one of the armchairs opposite their couch. 

“Trust me, it’s pointless,” Derek tells him. “He hates chairs.” 

“That’s not true,” Spencer says absent-mindedly, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I like the ones with wheels.” 

“Wait, you play keys, right?” Sam asks, watching Spencer pluck out a quick, dexterous open-tuned thing that Penelope is pretty sure he’s improvising. 

“And synths,” Spencer says, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. “But also… a little bit of everything, I guess.” 

“Guitar, bass, drums, violin, cello, saxophone, clarinet,” Derek rattles off proudly. “What else? There are some weird ones.” 

“Didgeridoo!” Penelope adds. 

“She calls it my didgeri-don’t,” Spencer says, and it’s true; it’s her least favorite instrument, which is unfortunate because it’s one of her favorite words.“And there are a few things I built, I guess, but haven’t really named yet.”

“That’s awesome,” Sam says, looking suitably impressed. 

“You need a goddamn haircut, Pretty Boy,” Derek says, as Spencer tries to get his hair out of his eyes again. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Sam tells Spencer, running a hand through the shampoo-commercial situation he has on his own head. “And don’t let my brother start in on you, either.” 

Penelope rummages in her purse for a second and pulls out a neon green butterfly clip. She combs some hair back from Spencer’s forehead, twists it, and secures it so that the butterfly is right on the crown of Spencer’s head.

“Thanks, that’s much better,” Spencer says, giving her a quick smile over his shoulder. Sam stifles a laugh. 

“Hey,” Derek says, in an undertone. “Got any more of those?” 

“I love the way your brain works,” Penelope stage-whispers back. She digs around until she has a whole handful of aggressively colorful glittery barrettes (some are shaped like flowers, some have pom-poms) and passes half to Derek. She leans down and starts to braid a little section of hair near Spencer’s temple. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

. . . 

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Hotch asks, as he starts mixing himself a drink. “I don’t think we met at the surprise show.” 

“Jack,” the kid says, with a sweet smile. He’s all fresh-faced and earnest. Hotch has _concerns_. 

“I’m Aaron, but everybody calls me Hotch,” he says. “What‘s your part in this whole circus?” 

“I’m their guitar tech,” he chirps. “Cas is my uncle, also. He’s the one who got me the job.” 

“Uh-huh. First tour?” 

He nods. “I’m excited! This is going to be great.”

Hotch has a feeling this is going to be _trouble_. 

Jack has a hand on the whiskey bottle when Hotch notices and asks, “How old are you?” 

“He’s twenty,” Charlie interrupts, snatching the bottle from Jack’s hand. “Down, boy.” 

Jack shrugs, not seeming particularly bothered, and wanders away with his soda. 

“Good to know,” Hotch says wryly. 

Charlie gives Hotch an apologetic look and says, “I feel like a spoilsport. Like, let the kid have some fun, right?”

“So you followed all the rules when you were his age?” 

“Well, no, not so much, although I wasn’t into drinking so much as… um. Mild felonies.” She wrinkles her nose expressively. “But I have strict orders from Cas. He might look like a teddy bear, but Cas can be _scary_.” 

“Felonies,” Hotch says, trying to keep a straight face. Charlie nods. 

“Hacking, mostly?” she says tentatively. “There was some… environmentally focused cyber-terrorism, I guess you’d call it.” 

“You should talk to Penelope, she used to do that sort of thing as well.” 

Charlie looks over dubiously at Penelope, who is pulling up the hem of Derek’s shirt and showing off his abs, Vanna White style, for Sam’s benefit. Sam looks shockingly unaffected, so odds are he _is_ straight, in which case, JJ owes Hotch some money.

“Really. She was actually contacted by the FBI, they wanted to hire her, but.” Hotch smiles at the way Charlie’s mouth falls open. “She has a whole… sordid history. They used to call her the Black Queen.” 

“Are you… what?” Charlie asks incredulously. 

“I know, it’s a ridiculous name, but —”

“No, that’s — I can’t believe it,” Charlie stutters. “Really?” 

Hotch raises an eyebrow. “Really. Does that mean something to you?” 

Charlie shakes her head, eyes wide. “You don’t understand, she’s a legend. She’s like a frakking _rockstar_.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“No, like an _actual_ rockstar,” Charlie insists. “Not that you’re not a rockstar, I didn’t mean — holy crap.” 

“Would you like me to introduce you?” Hotch offers. 

Charlie goes pale. “I don’t — um.” 

“I think you’re the first person who has ever been intimidated by Penelope Garcia,” Hotch muses. 

Charlie does a quick shot of whiskey before nodding. “Okay, I think I’m ready.” 

. . . 

“I am so fuckin’ glad I don’t have to deal with this every night,” Bobby says gruffly, with an expansive gesture at everyone in the room and their varied levels of inebriation. “We’re too old for this shit. Don’t know how you still want to go out on the road.” 

“Of all the groups I’ve managed, believe it or not, this one’s the easiest.”

Bobby looks across the room to where JJ is passing around shots and Emily is talking everybody into a game of Truth or Dare, as a “bonding exercise.” Spencer is clinging to Morgan’s back like a gangly white Yoda; Morgan, who’s serenading Sam with “Wonderwall” (Sam is covering his ears and looking pained) doesn’t seem to notice his weight. 

“I _don’t_ believe it, actually,” Bobby tells Rossi, who shrugs. 

“They take care of each other, really. No ego involved, with any of them, which is rare enough in this business.” Rossi pauses as Penelope shrieks; Hotch, who is standing between her and Charlie, looks vaguely alarmed, but nobody seems to be in any real danger. Rossi adds, “They may act like a bunch of assclowns sometimes, but they’re much smarter than they look. I told you, didn’t I?” 

“Fair enough,” Bobby says. He’d called Rossi on a whim, looking for an opener for Dean’s surprise show and hinting about “discretion” and “liberal types,” trying not to give too much away. He’d expected Rossi to put him in touch with a friend of a friend, or something. He didn’t expect this to work out so well.

Bobby’s not used to things working out well. It’s a nice change. 

“Good to see you again, anyway” Rossi says. “You’re coming out to a few more shows, right?” 

“Course. I’ll be around here and there.” 

“Bet you’ll miss them soon enough. I was bored stiff when I was retired,” Rossi says. 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to get those two through their teenage years,” Bobby grouches. “Just about put me in an early grave.” 

“They seem like good kids,” Rossi says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since they were… how old?” 

Bobby can’t help but smile at that. “Yeah, they’ve got good heads on their shoulders. They grew up. Just in time, too. I kept tellin’ them, success is going to change things, but I don’t think they believed me. Idjits.” 

Rossi nods knowingly. “Cheers to success, then. And old friends.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” 

. . . 

“Pastor’s son, in the church,” Emily says. 

“Twins,” Dean replies smugly. 

“Nice.” Emily gives him a fist-bump. “Backstage during a performance of The Nutcracker.” 

“I’ll be very disappointed if there were no nut jokes.” 

Emily smirks. “Well, there were no actual nuts involved, but the fairy did, in fact, taste like sugar plums.” 

“Yeah, okay, not bad,” Dean says. He clinks his beer bottle against hers and they drink. “On top of a zamboni.” 

“You mean zam- _bone_ -y?” 

“Thank you! Sam rolled his eyes so hard I thought they were gonna fall out when I said that.” 

“The Roxy.” 

“Green room? C’mon,” Dean scoffs. “Amateur hour.” 

“Nope,” Emily says triumphantly. “In the crowd, during a Guns N Roses show.” 

“Okay, that’s fuckin’ awesome,” Dean laughs.

“It really was.” 

Dean’s eyes flick across the room, following Cas, who just deadpanned something that’s making Hotch double over with laughter. Dean’s eyes go crinkly at the corners as his smile gets even brighter — a full-on megawatt movie star smile — and his expression is so sweet and soft and utterly adoring that Emily melts a little bit. 

“Gross,” she says, elbowing Dean. He elbows her right back. 

“Shuddup,” he mutters. 

“No more twins for you,” Emily sing-songs. 

“Worth it,” Dean says firmly, and even she can’t think of anything snarky to say to that. 

. . . 

JJ can only understand about one in five of the words Penelope and Charlie are chattering to each other, so she gives up and leaves them to it. She’s slightly concerned they’re plotting to take over the world, or something. They don’t seem to notice her leaving. 

Dean and Emily are side by side on one of the couches, both slouching, with their feet up on the coffee table and beers resting on their stomachs, giggling about something as if they’ve been lifelong friends. The whole tableau is unexpected, but not in a bad way. 

There’s something about Dean that JJ just didn’t _like_ , at first. It’s mostly that he’s _too_ likable. In every interaction they’ve had, he’s been incredibly charismatic, warm, polite, funny… but it’s not _him_. 

JJ is an expert at getting people to trust her without ever showing her hand. She recognizes a bluff when she sees one. 

She’s been watching Dean, whenever he thinks she’s not paying attention. He lets his guard down, sometimes, when he’s with his brother or Cas, but there’s a well-disguised wall that goes up when he talks to anyone else. It’s defensive fortifications camouflaged as charm. 

Apparently Emily’s shoved through whatever wall Dean usually puts up when he’s around strangers. Emily can do that to a person, though. JJ knows that better than anybody. 

Emily’s clearly teasing him about something. He’s grinning, boyish and bashful and genuine, and JJ likes him a hell of a lot more, suddenly. 

She heads over to join them on their couch, sliding over the armrest to sprawl halfway over Emily’s lap and cuddle in close. 

“Are you two still playing Truth or Dare? This doesn’t look very daring.” 

“Debauchery pissing contest,” Emily informs her. 

Dean is watching her, and his walls are up again: pleasant smile slapped on his face, eyes calculating, playing it close to the chest until he figures her out. 

She raises an eyebrow and prompts him: “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me?” 

He looks suspicious, but he goes with it. “What’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” JJ says primly, and for a second Dean’s actually thinking about taking her seriously. She rolls her eyes. “Kidding. Middle of a Guns N Roses show.” 

He looks confused for a second. Then Emily and JJ high-five, and Dean barks out a laugh. 

“I didn’t know you —” 

He hesitates. 

“Swing that way?” JJ supplies. 

“Yeah, that.”

“Most people don’t, and we’re gonna keep it that way. Understood?”

Dean seems surprised by the sudden sharp edge in her voice. “Gotcha.” 

“I used to think she was crazy for not coming out publicly,” Emily tells Dean, but she’s looking at JJ with a little half-smile on her face. “But now that people are starting to give a shit about us, sometimes I think she might’ve had the right idea.” 

“Don’t lie, you _love_ being an ‘inspiration to the youth,’” JJ says, with mocking finger quotes. “And you’ve been disappointing your mom for years, she’s used to it. Mine would probably have a heart attack.” 

“Yeah, but the number of times I get that fucking ‘Does that mean you’re attracted to pans?’ bullshit, I swear to God…” 

Dean’s looking at JJ again, but this time it’s less calculating and more admiring. He nods slowly like something just started to make sense. 

“Helluva poker face,” he says approvingly. 

JJ grins. “Yours isn’t too bad either.” 

. . . 

“I gotta ask,” Spencer says, slurred and slow. “How’d you choose the band name? The Ceiling Fires?”

Sam shrugs. “It was a recurring dream that Dean and I both used to have.” 

“Weird image.” Spencer makes a face as he undoes one of the tiny braids Penelope left in his hair. “Not that — weird isn’t a bad thing. It’s memorable.” 

“Yeah, I guess so. Dean called it that as a joke, to start with, I think, but...” Sam rambles. He’s right at that point of drunk where words just keep rolling off his tongue. “Feels like a long time ago. I mean, I did not in a million years think we’d end up here.” 

“Linear time,” Spencer comments. 

Sam waits for him to finish the thought, but apparently that’s it. 

“Linear time,” he repeats agreeably. “It’s not just… time, though, you know? It’s the whole deal. Success, I guess. People listening. Expecting you to look a certain way, or… I don’t fucking know.”

Spencer nods pensively, combing his fingers through his hair again. “We did a magazine photo shoot the other day and they wouldn’t let me wear any of my own clothes. I _like_ my clothes. And people keep asking if I’m dating anybody.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that question too.” Spencer doesn’t know the half of it. Sam laughs to himself, rubbing his forehead, and takes a big gulp of his drink. 

Spencer pulls out another barrette with a grimace. “I mean, why would anyone care if you’re dating… who was it? Harry Styles?” 

Sam chokes and spits whiskey everywhere. 

“Who —” he wheezes, and has to stop to cough. “Fucking — how did you _know_?” 

“Wait, really?” 

“ _What_?” 

“Penelope said it was just a stupid rumor,” Spencer says. He’s squinting at Sam like he’s seeing double. 

“Shit.” The adrenaline rush is going a long way toward sobering Sam up. He shakes his head and tries to pull himself together. “Shit. I just… _shit_.” 

“Is that a big deal?” Spencer asks, with a mild sort of confusion. “Penelope made it sound like a joke. She called it a conspiracy theory.” 

Sam stares at him, open-mouthed, before dropping his head into his hands with a groan. “Yeah, let’s just keep calling it a conspiracy theory, okay? I already owe his publicist a fucking… fruit basket, or maybe just a lot of wine.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t actually know who that is,” Spencer offers. Sam laughs weakly. “No, really, I won’t tell anybody. Even Penelope. _Especially_ Penelope.” 

Sam studies him for a second. He looks earnest enough, in a boozy, unfocused way, but Sam’s learned the hard way that most people can’t be trusted. 

Still, worth a try. 

“If you could — yeah. Please? Just… _please_ don’t tell anybody.” 

“Believe me,” Spencer says. “I know how it goes. If you let people see the things that matter…” He trails off, his eyes sliding to a point somewhere over Sam’s shoulder, and his voice gets unexpectedly clear and fierce. “People can be vicious. I wouldn’t give them a weapon like that.” 

Sam’s pretty sure he shouldn’t feel so reassured — Spencer still has a glittery butterfly clip sticking out from behind one ear — but he is, somehow. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

Spencer shrugs, like it’s nothing, and settles the guitar in his lap again. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

“Oh _hell_ no,” Sam grumbles, and throws a couch cushion at him. 

. . .

“Okay,” Hotch says decisively. “Everybody have their room keys?” 

“Aww! He’s like the world’s cutest drill sergeant,” Charlie says. Hotch scowls at her, but he has a feeling it’s not very intimidating. She just giggles.

“Rossi?” Hotch asks, looking around and doing a quick head count. 

“Went to bed an hour ago to listen to the latest episode of his fucking true crime podcast,” Emily says. 

Hotch frowns. “Without me? Sneaky bastard.” 

“Of all the weird fucking hobbies…” JJ mutters. “Hey, Morgan, is it my turn to be the jetpack?” 

“ _Fuck_ no. I am way too buzzed to be carrying any of you home tonight. You can walk.”

“I’m not sure I can, actually,” Spencer says morosely. He looks like a rag doll, sitting on the floor, propped up by the side of the couch. 

“Somebody come get Schroeder,” Dean mumbles, from where he’s curled up on the couch with his head in Cas’s lap. 

“We got this,” Penelope says determinedly. She grabs Spencer by the wrists and hauls him to his feet, and they lean against each other heavily, somehow managing to stay upright. 

Sam opens the door for them, smiling bemusedly as they all start to trail past: Morgan first, uncharacteristically wobbly on his feet; Emily and JJ, with their hands tucked into each other’s back pockets; Spencer and Penelope, staggering dangerously; and finally, Hotch bringing up the rear.

“Thanks,” he tells Sam, and waves at the others. “See you tomorrow.” 

Before the door closes behind him, Hotch hears Dean say, “It’s gonna be a fun tour.” 

.


	2. Wake-Up Calls and Watermelon

**Wayward Sons World Tour, Day 4: somewhere between Miami and Orlando, FL**

Something is meowing. 

Rossi frowns to himself and opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of his bunk. 

Something is _meowing_ on his _bus_. 

His first thought would ordinarily be Penelope and one of her assorted stuffed animals or weird talking figurines. Spencer could also potentially be the culprit, depending on what sort of chemicals were in his system. Last time Rossi checked, though, both of them were on the other bus, where the shenanigans are supposed to happen. This is the _quiet_ bus, where the grownups sleep. 

The mysterious something meows again. 

Bad enough that he’s slumming it sleeping on a goddamn tour bus. Now there’s a goddamn petting zoo on board. Rossi sighs and gets out of his bunk to investigate. 

“Who’s the cutest kitten in the entire world?” Morgan is sitting on the ground in the front, smiling adoringly at a tiny ball of black fuzz he’s cradling in his palms. “Who’s the sweetest little furball I’ve ever seen, hmm?” 

“How on God’s green earth did you find a kitten at —” Rossi glances at the clock on the microwave. “—nine in the morning in the middle of Florida?” 

Morgan looks a little guilty, but Rossi can’t tell if it’s because he has a kitten or because he got caught using that ridiculous high-pitched voice. 

“We’re at a rest stop so the drivers can get a couple hours’ sleep, and Hotch and I were stretching our legs, and they were in a box close to the highway,” Morgan explains. “He was the only one who was still alive. I couldn’t just leave him there.” 

The door opens, and Hotch comes in, carefully carrying a small dish of water. He’s followed by Sam Winchester, who has an upside-down drum that’s padded with a towel. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” Rossi mutters, watching the three grown men surround the kitten and coo at it. Morgan tucks it into the drum and it curls up happily, meowing its appreciation. 

Sam’s phone rings, and he digs it out of his pocket and answers: “Yeah? No, we got water, we just — no, Dean, Jesus. Just the hoodie. Did you find it?” He pauses and scowls, stepping away from the others and lowering his voice. “No, that’d be way too big for it, are you kidding me? That collar was specially made… _no_! Leave the fucking leash, Dean, it’s not like we’re taking the kitten for walks.” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, bring the feathery thing, just — oh for fuck’s _sake_ , leave that bag alone before you find something you really don’t — _Dean_. Yeah. Cool.” He grimaces and hangs up. 

“Do I want to know?” Rossi asks, with a new sense of respect. 

“No,” Sam says firmly. He turns back to Hotch and Morgan and announces, “Dean’s bringing some stuff we can use as cat toys, and a big hoodie with a pocket so you can carry it around.” 

“Sweet. Thanks, man,” Morgan says, flashing a bright grin. He’s all googly-eyed. 

“What should we name it?” Sam asks, crouching down and rubbing under the kitten’s chin with one careful finger. 

They all take a moment to consider. The little ball of fluff is purring, and even Rossi has to admit that it’s goddamn adorable. 

“What kind of drum is that?” Hotch asks Sam, who grins. 

“Pearl.” 

“Pearl!” Morgan echoes delightedly. “Who’s the prettiest little black pearl, hmm?” 

“I guess we need to find a pet store,” Rossi sighs, and settles in to get to know his grand-kitten.

***

**Wayward Sons World Tour, Day 7: Atlanta, GA**

“Wheels up in fifteen,” Hotch is shouting, banging on the hotel room door. JJ groans without opening her eyes and tries to pull Emily closer, rubbing her cheek against the soft worn cotton of Emily’s shirt. 

“What the fuck,” Emily mumbles. 

“Oh, seriously, what the _fuck_ ,” comes Penelope’s voice. The fact that it’s coming from somewhere _above_ JJ is what makes her frown and open her eyes. 

She and Emily are on the floor, lying in a sort of nest, which upon closer inspection seems to be made up of an inflatable kiddie pool filled with blankets. 

Penelope is peering over the edge of her bed at them, squinting blearily, last night’s hot pink lipstick smeared down her chin. She appears to be wearing a plastic coconut bra over her shirt. 

“Huh,” JJ says. She pulls a lei off her neck. “Did we throw a tiki party last night?” 

“That would seem to be the case,” Emily says slowly. She rolls over and wraps her arms around JJ. “Five more minutes.” 

“Solid plan,” JJ answers, snuggling in. The kiddie pool is surprisingly comfortable. 

“Not if we have to pack up and get our sorry asses on the bus in fifteen minutes,” Penelope reminds them. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

“I smell like… like daiquiris and regret,” Penelope sighs. She wrestles the coconut bra off and flings it across the room. 

“You can have first shower,” Emily says generously. 

JJ hears Penelope pad across the floor, and then there’s a surprised yelp from the bathroom. 

“Is Spencer in the tub again?” JJ mutters. 

“Yes, but oh my god, you guys, you need to come see this,” Penelope says, giggling. JJ groans, head spinning, but manages to get up. She hauls Emily to her feet. 

JJ pokes her head through the bathroom door and snorts. Spencer’s wearing one of those cheap fake grass skirts over his jeans and there’s a top hat perched on his head. He’s got his arms wrapped around a tacky pink flamingo lawn ornament. 

“Em, get your—”

“On it,” Emily says, already reappearing with her phone to snap a picture. 

Spencer stirs with a pathetic sort of whining noise. 

“Next time I suggest coconut rum,” he slurs, without opening his eyes, “...remind me I’m a moron, ‘kay?” 

*** 

**Wayward Sons World Tour, Day 10: near Dallas, TX**

“Get your hooves out of the toaster!” Cas says urgently. Dean starts awake and almost falls out of the bunk. He really needs to give up trying to sleep with Cas on the bus; these things were not meant for two people. 

Cas mumbles something about Mufasa and opens his eyes groggily. 

“Fun dreams?” Dean asks, voice raspy with sleep. He cuddles close and presses a kiss to Cas’s pulse. 

“There were wildebeests in the kitchen,” Cas croaks. 

“Sounds like a good time. Coffee?” 

“Mmm.” 

Dean rolls out of the bunk and stretches. The door to the back lounge is open, and he can hear music; he looks inside curiously. 

He remembers Sam saying something about a Doctor Who marathon. Geek.

The DVD menu is up on the little flat-screen, playing the theme music in a loop. Sam’s sprawled out on one of the couches with popcorn in his hair, and Penelope and Charlie are leaning against each other on the other couch. 

Someone snores loudly, but it doesn’t seem to be any of those three. Dean looks around, momentarily confused, until he spots Spencer, who has wedged himself under the tiny table. He’s curled up with what looks like Charlie’s favorite purple hoodie as a pillow, and Pearl is kneading happily at one of his arms. 

“Time’s it?” Sam asks quietly. He sits up, and something pops audibly as he stretches his shoulders. 

“Coffee time,” Dean whispers back. 

He wants to make a snarky quip about how they’ve clearly been partying hard, but Sammy’s looking around the room with such a fond little smile on his face that Dean can’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he just leads the way through the bunk area, out to the front, where Cas is watching the coffee drip slowly into the pot. 

Dean wraps his arms around Cas and nuzzles into his neck. It’s a good morning. 

***

**Wayward Sons World Tour, Day 14: Chula Vista, CA**

Penelope is just about to get up for a gloriously self-indulgent shower (and if she uses all the hot water while the others are hitting snooze, that’s _fully_ their problem) when there’s a knock on the door.

She peers through the peephole. It’s Dean, aka not at all who she expected. 

“Hey, sorry to bother you,” he says gruffly, when she opens the door. “Um… Spencer said he knows how to pick locks?”

Ooh, this is gonna be fun. 

“He sure does. What’s up?” 

“Um… we need to pick a lock,” Dean tries, and Penelope laughs. 

“Nice try. Gimme the dirty deets.” 

Dean sighs. “Jack is maybe handcuffed to the bed.” 

“No _way_ ,” Penelope says gleefully. “Okay, I will wake the boy wonder, hang on.” 

She ushers Dean into their room, shushing him and pointing to JJ and Emily, who are still asleep, before poking Spencer. 

“Are you sleeping in a kiddie pool?” Dean asks. 

“Mmph,” Spencer assents, rubbing his eyes. “M’comfy.” 

Penelope shrugs at Dean as if to say, _what can you do?_

“So there is a bit of a situation I was hoping you could help with,” Dean says. “A lock picking situation? It’s, um, a pair of handcuffs.” 

Spencer doesn’t bat an eye, bless his heart. He just shrugs and unfolds himself from the kiddie pool, picking up his wallet from the desk. 

Penelope grabs a robe and her glasses, because while she wouldn’t ordinarily show her face while she’s still in pajamas, there’s no way in _hell_ she’s missing this. Dean looks like he’s about to protest. 

“She’s my emotional support cyberterrorist,” Spencer tells him. “She’s coming.” 

“Excuse you, _former_ cyberterrorist,” Penelope says, as dignified as she can manage while wearing a fuzzy zebra-patterned robe. “I prefer to think of myself as your fairy godmother.” 

“No teasing him,” Dean says sternly, but leads the way out the door. 

“You really trying to tell me you found the kid handcuffed to a bed and nobody is going to tease him about it?” 

“Well,” Dean amends, with a smug grin. “Nobody but his family is allowed to tease him. Don’t worry, though, we took pictures.” 

“Yeah, okay. That seems fair.” 

Dean leads the way into the Ceiling Fires’ suite and points them to one of the bedrooms. 

Penelope can hear Sam’s voice when they get to the open door: “I told you, they’re single-latch. You pull on those the wrong way, they’ll cut off your circulation and — oh, hey, guys.” 

Not only are they handcuffs, they’re handcuffs adorned with pink fluff. They’ve pulled a blanket up to Jack’s chest, but he’s clearly naked under it, and he’s blushing so hard he basically matches the handcuffs. 

“Good morning,” he says politely. 

Penelope gives him a cheerful wave. “Don’t mind me. Spencer’s here to rescue you.” 

Spencer is unfazed. He pulls a tiny flat case from inside his wallet and pulls out a couple picks. Sam and Dean are both watching him like hawks. Mother hens. Overprotective mother hawks? Something like that. 

It barely takes a second before the lock clicks open. 

Jack breathes a sigh of relief and rubs his wrists. “Thank you. Seriously.” 

“You gotta teach me that,” Sam says to Spencer. He grabs the handcuffs and lifts them between two fingers like they’ve personally offended him. 

“It’s easy once you understand the principle of it,” Spencer tells him, showing him the picks. “See, this pushes the tumbler—” 

“Where’d you go?” comes a low British voice from the main room, and then _Harry motherfucking Styles_ is wandering through the door, wearing a turquoise silk kimono and holding a half-eaten slice of watermelon. “What on Earth are you doing with those? I have my leather — oh.” He looks from Penelope to Spencer, blinking. “I… don’t know you, do I?” 

“Shit,” Dean mutters. “When did you get here?” 

“Wee hours.” He takes a bite of watermelon, tongue-first, and chews slowly. 

Penelope is staring. She should really stop staring and say something cool. 

“You look sorta familiar,” Spencer offers, with a little wave. “Did you sell me E at a warehouse party in Boston a couple years ago? Cause I gotta say, that was a weird night.” 

“Pretty sure that wasn’t me,” he says pensively. “But stranger things have happened.” 

_Harry_ goddamn _Styles_ is licking juice off his fingers and _dimpling_ in her general direction and _this cannot be real life_. 

“The watermelon is a little on the nose, don’t you think?” Penelope blurts out. Sam snorts from somewhere behind her. 

“They were all out of kiwis, I’m afraid,” Harry drawls. “You want some? More in the kitchen. Bananas, too, and—” 

“Hey, guys?” Jack interrupts, from where he’s got the covers pulled up to his chin. “Um… would you mind taking this outside so I can put some clothes on?” 

There’s a chorus of apologies. Spencer asks about coffee as they all start to filter out the door, and Penelope heads to the kitchen to eat watermelon with Harry Styles, because apparently this is her life now. 


	3. Hats and Hangovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Runs vaguely parallel to "Wake-Up Calls and Watermelon."


	4. Breakfast and Bus Rides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are manicures and Magic the Gathering games.

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, and they both hang back as the others start to gather in the kitchenette. Penelope keeps shooting wide-eyed, starstruck looks at Harry, and it’s making Dean nervous. 

“You okay with this?” Dean asks quietly. “You think she’ll keep her mouth shut?” 

Sam shrugs. “I can talk to her.” 

“And Schroeder? I mean, love the kid to death, but holy _hell_ does he babble.” 

“Spencer’s known since the first night of tour.” 

“ _How_?” 

Sam chuckles. “Kinda a funny story… tell you later. I honestly think he might’ve forgotten, though.” 

“What about the rest of ‘em?” Dean asks. “I mean, I like ‘em well enough, but…”

“I want to tell them,” Sam says, without hesitating. “I’m just gonna bite the bullet and invite them all over for breakfast.” 

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You sure?” 

“I trust them.” 

“Okay. Just don’t want you to get hurt, Sammy.” 

“What a shock,” Sam deadpans. “Dean’s pulling the protective big brother card? Alert the press.”

Dean purses his lips and gives Sam a light punch on the arm. “Bitch.” 

“Don’t let Emily hear you saying that,” Sam chuckles. “Shoulda heard the lecture I got the other day about the way misogyny is perpetuated through language. Honestly, though. What do you really think is going to happen? It’s not like they’ve outed you and Cas, they’ve all been awesome about it.” 

“This is different, though,” Dean says, with a grimace. “I mean, like it or not, it’d be _news_. The gossip rags would pay serious fuckin’ money for a picture of the two of you.” 

“It’s not like we’re gonna walk around, like, fused at the mouth,” Sam laughs. “No PDA required. But… I want him to meet some of my friends. Y’know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Stop worrying so much, Dean.” Sam’s expression is soft and fond, and he claps Dean on the shoulder before heading for the coffee maker and Harry. 

Harry wraps himself around Sam like a giant squid, if a giant squid wore Gucci, and Dean’s chest feels tight with anxiety. The two of them are looking at each other with these stupid googly-eyed dimpled smiles. It doesn’t even count as PDA, not really, except that Sam is so godawful at hiding his feelings that he might as well be wearing a neon sign. 

Then Harry starts feeding him a strawberry, and _that_ definitely counts as PDA, if not public indecency. Gross. 

If someone did take a picture of them like this, with their sleepy-eyed smiles and interlaced fingers, it’d be worth thousands of dollars. That’s a hell of an incentive. Dean’s had people fuck him over for much less. 

Dean’s learned his lesson over the years. The only people you can really trust are your family. 

Cas emerges from their room, blinking blearily around at everyone before coming over to Dean and leaning in for a kiss. 

“Morning breath, fuck,” Dean grumbles, making a face, but he grabs Cas and pulls him in anyway. 

A cheer goes up around them, and Dean sees Jack coming out of his room, clothed now, but still blushing red and shamefaced. 

“What’d I miss?” Cas says, scowling, and Dean grins gleefully before launching into the story. 

* * *

“I guess I just don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” Spencer says, contemplating his hand of cards. “Aside from a very vocal minority, there’s widespread support for LGBT rights, statistically, and the music industry is more progressive than most. If you look at David Bowie, for example —” 

“I pass the turn,” Charlie interrupts, cutting him off before he can launch into full-on textbook mode. “It’s not really about that, though.” 

Charlie forgets about the conversation for a minute as he attacks her planeswalker. She used to _own_ her local Friday Night Magic tournaments, and she’s more than a little pissed that this skinny fucker in a sweater vest has won three of their last four games. Spencer is _sneaky_. Charlie can respect that, but it’s infuriating. 

“Why, then?” 

“Hmm? Oh, that. It’s more to do with… privacy, I guess. That’s a hell of a lot of public attention for Sam. He doesn’t want people to sing Happy Birthday to him, you know?” 

“Doesn’t everybody hate being sung to?” Spencer asks pensively.

“Well, yeah. But Harry’s the sort of famous where people get totally invasive and weird about his personal life. Like, starting rumors, tabloid shit, and it extends to anyone he gets involved with.” 

“Really?” Spencer downs the last of his coffee. It’s his third cup, but he hasn’t touched the plate of pancakes that’s been going cold on the table. 

“Yeah. I don’t know if Sam realizes the full level of crazy at work, but Dean and I looked online, one night, after Harry brought it up. The shit people have said about his exes… about his friends, even. They’re _vicious_ about it. Analyzing every facial expression in every picture, making up stories…” 

Spencer’s forehead creases in a frown. “I play Grasp of Darkness on your Primordial Hydra and swing with all my zombies.” 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Charlie mutters. “Rematch?” 

Spencer’s staring intently down at the table, lost in thought, and he doesn’t seem to hear her for a second. She chucks one of her D-20s at his face and he starts when it bounces off his forehead. 

“Sorry.”

“Where’d you go?” 

He hesitates before mumbling, “I had a stalker.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, she — Cat. I told her I didn’t want to sleep with her, and she didn’t like that very much.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “She learned everything about me, and I mean _everything_. Tried to manipulate me, tried to manipulate my friends…”

“Yikes. What happened?” 

“She went to jail for a little while. She showed up when she got out, one night in Boston—” Spencer brightens. “—but Derek tackled her and threw her into the Charles River.” 

“For real?” 

Spencer nods and smiles in a way that makes Charlie think she’s not getting the full story. “It was a weird night.” 

“So she hasn’t showed up since then?” 

“No. But… I just felt like I couldn’t _hide_ anything, like every part of me, every shitty thing I’d ever done, was under a microscope. It was awful. I’m all for being honest, you know? That’s great, in theory, but... everybody deserves the right to hide if they want to. You should be the one to decide what parts of yourself you want to share.” 

Charlie thinks about the friend who outed her in high school, and how naked she felt. 

“Agreed.” 

* * *

Dean sits down next to Derek at the kitchen bar as he’s sealing the third joint. 

“Rolling for the road?” he asks, around a mouthful of bacon. “Nicely done.” 

“The key is the crutch,” Derek tells him. “Ditalini.” 

“No shit? Huh.” 

Derek keeps working, watching Dean, who’s watching Sam. 

“Nothing to worry about here,” Derek points out gently. “You know that, right?” 

Dean lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. Fuck. Habit, y’know? He’s my brother.” 

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Derek says ruefully, glancing over at Spencer. 

“Every person he tells is another person that could hurt him,” Dean says fiercely. “I fuckin’ _hate_ that.” 

“Worrying doesn’t help, though.” 

Dean scowls at that, thinking for a moment as he chews, before saying, “I just wish there was a way I _could_ help.” 

“A while ago, there was this guy who went after Emily,” Derek says slowly, twisting the next joint closed. “And he didn’t hurt her bad, or anything. Spencer and JJ jumped in, and Spencer took the worst of it, because… Spencer.” 

“Can’t see him being handy in a fight.” 

“Try telling him that when he’s pissed. Point is, though… nobody got hurt, but I was pretty shaken up about it. Beat myself up for not being there to protect them, until my girl Penelope talked some sense into me. She said, ‘It’s not your job to keep them safe all the time. The most important thing is to make sure they know they’re safe with you.’ I think about that a _lot_.” 

“So, what, I’m supposed to just… ignore the risk?” 

“No,” Derek says patiently. “But it’s his risk to take. You being afraid isn’t going to make the world any less scary, but knowing that you’re there, that you’re proud of him, that you’ve got his back no matter what? That helps.” 

Dean mulls that over. There’s a mulish set to his jaw that reminds Derek of Emily; it’s the face she makes when she knows he’s right and doesn’t want to admit it. He tries to hide his smile as he finishes rolling the last joint and offers it to Dean. 

“Thanks,” Dean says gruffly. 

“Any time.” 

* * *

When JJ opens the bus door, she’s greeted by a cloud of weed smoke. She can see Hotch stretched out on the couch with a half-smoked joint in one hand and a battered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in the other. He’s reading out loud, and for a moment JJ can’t figure out who he’s reading to; then she notices Pearl curled up on his chest, rubbing her tiny fuzzy head against his cheek. 

It’s so goddamn cute JJ doesn’t know what to do with herself. She settles for whipping out her phone and taking a quick picture. 

As she walks up the bus steps, Hotch holds out the lit joint without pausing, and she takes it happily. 

JJ’s exhaling smoke, finally feeling the weird tension under her skin start to evaporate, when Rossi opens the door.

“All set,” Rossi says, giving the driver a thumbs-up. 

“Did you triple-check your head count?” Hotch asks, deadpan. 

“Sure did.” 

“Everybody present and accounted for?” JJ adds innocently. “Spencer?” 

“He’s showing off his new toy on the Winchesters’ bus.”

“Penelope?” 

“Playing Sega with Charlie.” 

“And Morgan?” 

“Already in the back, taking a nap.” 

“Emily?” Hotch presses. 

“She’s in the batcave to — oh. I see.” Rossi glowers. “Very funny.” 

“Are you _sure_ you didn’t forget Spencer again?” JJ asks, giggling hoarsely around another lungful of smoke. 

“It was one time,” Rossi protests, flipping them off. “You try keeping track of the kid. He’s like a squirrel. A squirrel on LSD.” 

“Pretty sure it was mushrooms that day,” JJ points out. 

Rossi sits down and asks thoughtfully, “Did anybody see that coming?” 

“Sam? Honestly, no,” Hotch answers, frowning. “Not that it’s any of our business, but…” 

“Me neither,” JJ admits. 

She’s still rattled by the whole thing, for reasons she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s not about Sam, or whatever bullshit constructs of masculinity that would make people assume he’s straight just because he has muscles and dresses like a lumberjack. She’s not shocked by the _label_ , or whatever. 

“There’s someone I want you guys to meet,” Sam had told them. He tucked his hair behind his ears as he said it; it’s his tell, his nervous tic, and JJ has the poker winnings to prove it. She had wondered, for a moment, what would make him smile like that in spite of his obvious anxiety. 

Dean had been glaring from the other side of the room, gauging their reactions, his arms folded and his fear written all over his face in the guise of a scowl, like a feral dog who’d been backed into a corner. JJ could understand the fear. Sam, though… Sam just looked _relieved_. 

Hotch and Rossi are staring at her, she realizes abruptly. 

“Hm?” 

“I said, anything you want to do in L.A.? Plenty of time for sightseeing.” 

JJ shrugs. “Not really.” 

“You okay?” Rossi asks, looking at her closely. 

“Yeah, just… tired. I’m gonna take that nap now.” She gives them a bright smile, passing the joint to Rossi, and gets up before they can question it. 

JJ feels a little better once she’s in a spare bunk with the curtain closed. It’s easier to examine the knot in her chest like this, now that she’s alone in the dark, safe and hidden. 

She keeps coming back to the smile on Sam’s face. 

There was a moment, earlier, when JJ noticed Sam and Harry from across the room as they talked to Emily and Hotch. Harry had been leaning against Sam’s side. Sam’s arm was draped casually over his shoulder, and he started playing idly with Harry’s hair, combing his fingers through the messy curls at his temple as Harry tilted his head into the touch. 

There was a peaceful possessiveness in it—the sort of cozy familiarity that had been worn soft by time like overwashed cotton—an unspoken claim: _mine_. 

How long has it been since JJ felt that with someone, like their closeness was a second skin that she could wear in public? 

Not since Emily. Even then it had always been tainted by fear, an overwhelming desire to _hide_ whenever she could feel someone watching. 

She and Emily are loudly affectionate with each other in public, of course: drunk and dancing, or clinging to each other as they stagger home, or kissing with an exaggerated smacking sound when anyone mutters disapprovingly in their direction. But that’s brash and performative and platonic, the sort of thing JJ could do just as comfortably with Penelope or Spencer. That’s different. 

Anybody who’d seen Sam and Harry would’ve known immediately; that sort of intimacy is unmistakable, and Sam didn’t seem to care. He was smiling like he was proud to show it off. 

JJ has seen it in Dean and Cas, too, but never quite so clearly. Maybe it’s because they’ve never had to hide around the Business As Usual crowd, so the contrast hasn’t drawn her attention, or maybe it’s just that they’re not demonstratively tactile in the same way. You have to know him well (and you have to be paying attention) to catch glimpses of the tenderness that Dean masks so well. He doesn’t wear his emotions on his face for everyone to see. JJ can relate. 

But Sam wasn’t hiding, that morning; he was just sweet and vulnerable and _proud_ of it and JJ realizes suddenly that she’s jealous. That’s _envy_ squirming around in her belly. 

She wants that sort of love: fearless, or maybe in spite of fear. She gets sick of hiding, sometimes. 

JJ puts a pin in that thought and tells herself she can deal with it later, when she’s not quite so stoned and maudlin. Right now, it’s naptime. 

* * *

Dean intended to nap all the way to Sacramento, but he only manages to doze for a half hour or so. There’s too much on his mind. He pushes groggily through the door and thinks a silent _thank you_ at whoever got the coffee machine going. 

Spencer and Jack are sitting on one couch, playing with something that Dean recognizes as a theremin. Sam’s on the other couch, and Harry and Cas are sitting at the table. 

“What do you think?” Cas asks, when he notices Dean watching. He holds up two bottles of nail polish. 

“Black is punk rock. Pastels are for the Easter bunny’s little sister,” Dean opines. 

“Love you too, Dean Bean.” Harry shoots him a cheerful pastel-green-painted middle finger. Dean ruffles his hair affectionately on his way to sit next to Sam. 

Dean’s first instinct was to scoff, to snark, to dismiss nail polish as girly, but he knows the instinct is just a vestigial memory of his dad’s stern voice. He’s been getting better at recognizing that voice, in the last few years; for a while he thought he was done with it, figuring that if he could admit he was in love with a guy, he must be over that sort of learned bullshit. Can’t be phobic if you’re one of the homos, right? So… fuck off, Dad. 

Then Harry showed up, with his totally fuckin’ zen attitude about annihilating gendered fashion norms, and Dean found himself wincing, sometimes, or looking around furtively to make sure nobody was staring. Even at Bonnaroo, when Harry went around hiding behind wigs and glasses—when the entire _point_ was for him to pass as a girl—Dean’s immediate knee-jerk reaction was to cringe. It’s taken awhile, but he’s getting better at ignoring the fear when it kicks up in his gut. 

Dean’s distracted by a drawn-out melancholy squeal. 

“Someone turned a taxidermied badger into a theremin one time,” Spencer says happily, as Jack waves his hand over it again. “They called it a badgermin.” 

Dean snorts. “Sounds like a violin that needs an exorcism.” 

“Or a Barred Owl on barbiturates,” Sam offers. 

“Worn-Out-Brake-Pad flavored La Croix.” 

“A whale that got so stoned it forgot how to talk.” 

“One of the mermaids from Harry Potter having a wet dream,” Spencer suggests, and Cas laughs so hard he almost knocks over the bottle of nail polish. 

“Get your shit together, Castiel,” Harry scolds, but he’s giggling too. It’s like being scolded by a very happy sloth. “You’re done, mate. Who’s next, hmm?” 

He points at Jack, who shakes his head. 

“I need to get some sleep,” he says, and the last word cracks on a yawn. 

Sam grins. “Yeah, I’m guessing you didn’t get much rest last night.” 

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Grey,” Dean teases, and wolf-whistles as Jack retreats. Cas relocates to the couch, giving Dean a peck on the cheek before sitting back and admiring his manicure. 

Harry waves the bottle at Spencer, who doesn’t notice; he’s focused intently on the instrument, coaxing out something that actually sounds like music, in a vague, freaky kind of way. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and settling at the table across from a delighted Harry. 

“How about a nice hot pink?” he asks. 

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Wasn’t one of those used in the Doctor Who theme?” Harry asks Spencer. Spencer brightens like a big geeky Christmas tree that’s strung with lights made of useless trivia. 

“Now you’ve done it,” Dean says under his breath. 

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Spencer announces. “The original composition used—”

Dean must be going soft, because he’s actually kind of enjoying this, both the lecture and the manicure. 

Then again, he thinks, Sam is enthralled, and Cas is smiling, and maybe Dean’s just really enjoying his _life_ right now. 

_Fuck off_ , _Dad_ , he thinks, admiring his pastel green nails. 


	5. Flirtation and Fistfights

The post-show adrenaline rush is made even sweeter by the fact that there’s a hot tub and a couple easy days in Dean’s near future. The first L.A. show is in the bag. They have another tomorrow — same venue means minimal gear-schlepping and setup, thank _fuck_ — followed by a full day off. 

Neither band has played L.A. in a while, and Dean’s seen a few familiar faces milling around already. It’s nice, aside from the small talk, but he’s used to that; the way he travels, he rarely has time to stay in one place and get to know people beyond the basics. He’s perfected the spiel: “tour’s been great, we’re going into the studio when it’s over, how’s your kid/spouse/dog?” etc. There are a bunch of those conversations happening around him, but people are starting to trickle out slowly, friends and acquaintances heading home or closing out. 

While they’re here, they’re staying at Harry’s, and Dean can’t lie, he’s looking forward to some poolside naps, movies on a decent-sized screen, and various other creature comforts. 

He’s getting another drink first, though. He leans up against the venue bar and looks around. 

At the end of the bar, Spencer is talking to a blonde, and it takes Dean a second to place her: Lila Archer, movie star and all-around hottie. Dean gapes at them for a second. He can’t see Spencer’s face, but _she’s_ clearly flirting, standing close and putting a hand on his arm. Dean had no idea the kid had game like that. Granted, he and Spencer aren’t exactly close, but. 

Dean hasn’t figured him out yet. Dean is usually good at figuring out what makes people tick, what they’re hiding behind their masks, but he can’t make heads or tails of whatever the fuck happens in Spencer’s head. He has this way of looking at Dean as if he’s an alien species, or something, all bemused and vaguely perturbed like he can’t make sense of the words that just came out of Dean’s mouth. 

Then again, Spencer’s high more often than not, and they don’t exactly have a lot in common, _and_ he’s a goddamn space cadet even when he’s sober, so... maybe he just really doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about half the time. 

He’s not like that with everybody, is the thing; Sam and Spencer got along immediately. They have this whole quirky dork thing going on where they talk in half-sentences that don’t make sense to anybody else. 

Not that Dean’s jealous or anything. Whatever. 

Dean’s drink arrives and he’s distracted for a moment, but when he looks again, Spencer’s shaking his head. Lila’s face falls. A second later, he’s giving her an awkward little wave, and she heads for the door. 

Yeah, Dean’s not usually one for gossip, but he really wants to know what the fuck just happened. Maybe Spencer’s one of those geeks who’s just completely fuckin’ oblivious when chicks are hitting on them? Dean can set him straight. It’ll be a bonding exercise. 

He weaves through the crowd to where Spencer is downing the last of his drink. 

“Tell me you did not just shoot down Lila Archer.” 

Spencer makes a face. “I could tell you that, but I’d be lying.” 

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean laughs. “Did she just march up and introduce herself? I didn’t know she was coming to the show.” 

“I met her at a party a while ago,” Spencer tells him. He’s looking up at the ceiling pensively, avoiding eye contact as he shreds a napkin. “In New York, when she was still in school. I, um. She’d been talking to this skeevy guy, and I saw him slip something in her drink, so.” 

“What did you do?” 

“Grabbed it and threw it in his face,” Spencer admits sheepishly. “And then I got punched, and she offered to, um, take me home and thank me, but I was kinda bleeding a lot. She gave me her number instead.” 

“That’s… actually pretty badass,” Dean comments. Spencer gives him half a smile. “So you guys kept in touch?” 

“She moved to L.A. not long after that. We’ve hung out a couple times, when I’ve been in town, but… I don’t think we’re interested in the same thing.” 

Dean almost smacks himself on the forehead. “I didn’t realize you were into dick, sorry.” 

“Oh, I’m not.” 

There’s a pause. Spencer doesn’t seem mad; his mouth is quirked in something resembling a smile, like he’s laughing at Dean for not asking the right questions. 

Is Spencer just _like that_ , or is he not offering any more information because he wants this conversation to be over? 

Whatever. Dean’s curious. 

“So, you’re into chicks but not Lila friggin’ Archer? Are you telling me she’s not your type? 

“It’s not that,” Spencer says, smirking. 

Dean blinks a couple times. Emily told him the other day that everybody in the band except Hotch was single, so… he’s coming up blank. 

“You gotta give me a hint or something.”

“I’m not into _sex_ ,” Spencer says, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh.” Dean hesitates, taking a drink to hide his surprise. “Huh. Is that… _huh_. Are you — are you _out_ , or whatever?” 

“I’m not _not_ out.” Spencer shrugs. “Most people just assume, one way or the other, and I don’t bother to correct them. I just… don’t really care what people think about me, so if they don’t ask, I don’t bother. I’m not hiding anything, though.” 

“Huh,” Dean repeats. He has no idea what to say. 

“If I do tell them, most people argue with me anyway,” Spencer says wryly. “Tell me I’ll change my mind when I meet the right person, or whatever. I tell them they’re probably right and change the subject.” 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “That doesn’t piss you off?”

“Sorta, but…” Spencer grimaces, fidgeting for a second. “I don’t like confrontation, or whatever. It’s not important. I’d rather just… not talk about myself.” 

“Sorry for… y’know.” 

“No biggie.” 

Dean still feels awkward, but Spencer doesn’t seem bothered. He just sits there, tapping out a rhythm on the bar top, smiling to himself. 

Dean doesn’t do well with silences. 

It occurs to him that he has a peace offering: “Wanna come outside and smoke a joint with me? Could use some fresh air.” 

“Hell yes I do,” Spencer says, brightening immediately. 

They make their way backstage and then through the labyrinthine venue hallways until they come out at the back lot, where the buses are idling. Hotch is on his phone across the lot, and a bouncer near the fence is saying something into a walkie-talkie, but for the most part, it’s quiet. 

Dean lights the joint and offers Spencer the first hit, leaning back against the brick wall. 

“Y’know, nobody’s ever actually asked me about my sexuality,” Dean tells him, and he’s not in the habit of volunteering information like that, but it seems to get Spencer’s attention. 

“Really?” 

“I didn’t ever think about it, until… recently. But it’s true. A fuckload of interviews, over the years, and like you said, everybody just assumes.” 

“Because you don’t contradict people’s ideas of what a man should look like, or talk like, or dress like,” Spencer says bluntly. “As long as you fit within a certain box…” He shrugs, blowing smoke up at the sky. 

“Yeah, my dad was big on that box,” Dean says ruefully. “Wouldn’t he be proud?” 

“Bet it won’t take long for them to start asking. Not if you keep wearing nail polish.” 

Dean takes the joint and frowns at his hands. He hadn’t even thought about that. 

“Really? That’s all it takes?” he asks. 

Spencer just snorts. Dean’s stomach does a nervous flip-flop. 

He’s got an interview with Spin scheduled for next week, and he doubts anybody will comment right away, but eventually... eventually there will be questions. What will he _say_ , if they ask? 

He’s still lost in thought, looking down at his free hand, as he exhales and passes to Spencer. With his eyes on the chipped green polish, it takes him a second to realize that Spencer hasn’t grabbed the joint. 

Dean looks up. Spencer is staring intently at something off to their side, and Dean follows his gaze over to the chain link fence and roll-away gate that separates them from the road. There’s a homeless woman there, hands over her ears, pacing back and forth. The security guy is saying something to her, his voice raised, as he starts to pull the gate open. 

Spencer moves abruptly, striding away from Dean without a word, and Dean hesitates for a second before pinching out the joint and following him. 

As he gets closer, Dean can make out what the bouncer is saying, in a loud, condescending voice like he’s talking to a toddler: “Move. Away. From. The. _Gate_. Jesus _Christ_ , can you fuckin’ hear me?” 

The woman is muttering to herself agitatedly, and she flinches away from the guy’s voice, but she doesn’t look up from her feet as she paces. 

“What are you doing?” Spencer snaps at the guard. The edge in his tone makes Dean hurry to catch up. 

“She won’t get outta the way,” he says, rolling his eyes. He turns to the woman again and shouts, “Hell-looooo, anybody home?” 

“Have you tried speaking to her like she’s a goddamn human being?” Spencer says, low and clipped. 

“Whoa, hey,” Dean says uneasily. Not that he doesn’t want to head-butt this asshole, but Spencer’s a quarter of the guy’s mass, at best.

“You wanna give it a try?” the guy scoffs. “Trust me, she’s not getting the picture. I’m gonna call the cops.” He directs the last words at the woman, who’s still pacing, more and more agitated: “Crazy bitch.”

“You should apologize now,” Spencer says, sharp and quiet and ice-cold. Dean puts a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, and Spencer shoves it away without looking at him. 

The bouncer has the nerve to laugh. “Calm the fuck down, buddy.” 

“This is calm, and I’m _not_ your fucking buddy,” Spencer snaps, taking another step closer. 

“Dude,” Dean interrupts. “Spencer, c’mon.” 

Spencer’s frozen for a moment, shaking with anger, but after a second, he steps back reluctantly. He reminds Dean of a hissing cat with its back arched and its claws exposed. 

“There you go, listen to your boyfriend,” the bouncer laughs. 

Dean considers him for a half-second, works up some saliva, and spits in his face. 

Everything moves quick and blurry after that; the guy shoves Dean back, cursing, and there’s a shout in the distance as he winds up. Before Dean can duck out of the way of the guy’s fist, Spencer steps in front of him — only to go flying, because he’s a fucking twig and should really know better. Dean sees red. He punches back. 

Then Hotch has the guy’s arms pinned behind his back, hauling him away, and Sam is grabbing Dean’s wrist before he can take another swing. Spencer grunts something incoherent from the ground. At least he’s conscious. 

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Dean snaps. “I’m fine, Sam, get off me.” He shakes out his smarting hand and glares daggers at the bouncer’s retreating back as Hotch and Rossi manhandle him into the building. Spencer makes a pained noise; he’s cupping his hands over his nose, and there’s blood dripping between his fingers. 

“Dean?” Cas is jogging over, Morgan behind him. He puts a hand on Dean’s arm, looking him up and down anxiously. “What happened?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Dean says gruffly, and turns to Spencer. “You okay, kid?” 

“‘M fide,” Spencer mumbles. “Is she still…” 

Dean glances over. The woman is sitting with her back to the fence, curled up with her arms around her knees. 

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “What should I —”

“I got it,” Cas tells him, and slips through the gate, approaching the woman with an easy, open smile. 

Cas was homeless for a while. Dean hates hearing him talk about it — not because it makes Cas sad, but exactly the opposite; he’s so matter-of-fact about the whole thing that it makes _Dean_ sad. He tells stories, sometimes, and he’s completely fuckin’ blasé even when he’s talking about things that make Dean _ache_ to think about. 

Dean hovers for a second. Sam is crouching next to Spencer, holding his balled-up flannel to Spencer’s nose, and Dean feels useless. There’s gotta be something he can do to help. 

Then he remembers something Cas said, once, and he turns his back on the scene and jogs off to the bus. 

He makes a beeline for the bunk under his, which is designated for storage. He’s got an almost-new backpack he’s been using as an overnighter, when he doesn’t want to lug his whole suitcase into a hotel; he dumps it out unceremoniously. 

He grabs a blanket first, the soft fleece one, rolling it up tight to stick it in the backpack. Then there’s a big hoodie, one Dean borrowed from their merch table the other day. He has a whole collection of tiny sealed soaps and shampoos from various hotels, and he runs to the kitchen to put them in a zip-lock bag. In the bathroom, he grabs a pack of wet wipes, the packaged spare toothbrush that Charlie keeps for “emergencies” — aka when she inevitably leaves hers at a hotel — and about half of their first aid kit. Then he ransacks the kitchen: several packs of ramen, a box of pop-tarts, couple bottles of water… he pauses, considering Sam’s nasty-ass granola bars, before tossing them in too. Sam can get more. He fishes the cash out of his wallet, shoves it in a zip-lock, and then closes the whole mess up. 

Then for a second he just freezes, looking down at the backpack, wondering if he’s being presumptuous or some shit. 

Dean’s always been suspicious of so-called “Good Samaritans.” _Everything_ has strings attached. If it were him, he wouldn’t accept unsolicited help, but he’s been told that’s maybe a psychological flaw, not a virtue. 

Cas told him once about a woman named Hannah (he called her an angel) who gave him a backpack of supplies when he first ended up on the street. Said she probably saved his life. It’s one of those stories Dean doesn’t like to think about, but… he remembers. 

When he hustles back to the fence, Spencer is on his feet, Sam’s bloody flannel clutched to his face as he talks to Rossi and Morgan. 

Cas is still with the woman, who is on her feet, now, looking rattled but much calmer than she did before. Cas is talking to her in that direct, no-bullshit way he has; it’d be off-putting, from anybody else, but Cas is so earnest that it’s comforting instead. 

The woman looks wary, when she sees Dean approaching, so he hangs back until Cas comes to him. 

“I grabbed some stuff,” he says anxiously. “I didn’t know… is that weird? It’s just, like, shampoo and a blanket and — sorry. I didn’t know what to do.” 

Cas just stares at him for a second, his expression completely unreadable. Dean’s stomach sinks. 

“You remembered,” Cas says hoarsely, just as Dean opens his mouth to apologize. 

The back of Dean’s neck feels hot. “Yeah?” 

Cas gives him a quick, fierce, affectionate smile. He reaches out and squeezes Dean’s arm once before taking the bag. 

“There’s a shelter a couple blocks away. I’m going to walk her there. I’ll be back shortly.” 

He watches Cas go, and then he turns to see Spencer staring at them. Dean clears his throat uncomfortably. 

“Thanks, Schroeder,” he says. 

Spencer gives him that look again, like he has no idea what Dean is talking about. Maybe he’s concussed. He lowers the flannel, revealing a mess of dried blood and the beginnings of an impressive shiner. 

“Y’had my back,” he says thickly. Even through his rapidly-swelling nose, it sounds a lot like “ _Duh_.” 

“The venue manager wants to talk to you,” Rossi announces. “Hotch saw enough to make it clear that the guy threw the first punch, so he’s most definitely getting fired, but just in case, they want it in your words.” 

“Fan-friggin-tastic,” Dean grouches. “Well, let’s get it over with. There’s a fuckin’ hot tub waiting for us, I’m ready to get the hell out of here.” 

“You sure you’re alright?” Rossi asks Spencer. “I swear, kid, you have the self-preservation instincts of a damn lemming.” 

“‘M’fide,” Spencer repeats, which is close enough to “fine,” apparently, that Rossi doesn’t push the issue. 

“You gotta be more careful with that pretty face of yours,” Morgan says, and Spencer flips him off. 

As he falls into step with Dean, heading back to the venue, Spencer mumbles, “Why d’I feel like I’b being sent t’the Princibal?” 

Dean chuckles, trying to imagine what a tiny (tinier) Spencer would’ve gotten in trouble for. 

“Hey, you mind tellin’ me why you just went feral on a guy who was the size of a fuckin’ hippo?” he asks. 

“Don’t like... bullies,” Spencer replies, clearly making an effort to enunciate. 

“Weren’t you _just_ telling me how you try to avoid confrontation?”

“S’different.” Spencer shrugs. “Pisses me off. Don’t really care what happens to me, but —” 

“That’s healthy,” Dean needles. 

Spencer’s not looking at him, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin. “Takes one to know one.” 

Dean stops in his tracks and sputters for a second, turning a snort of laughter into a huff like he’s offended. Then he shakes his head and they keep walking. 

“Thanks,” Dean says again. “That was really fucking stupid, but thanks.” 

“You would’ve done the same for me,” Spencer says, like it’s a given. 

Dean smiles, because he’s right. Maybe he has more in common with Spencer than he thought. 


End file.
